


Digital Love

by The_wolf_tears_through



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Henry V - Shakespeare, High-Rise (2015), Loki - Fandom, Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Tom, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, Hand Jobs, I Don't Even Know, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, NSFW, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vampires, Virtual Reality, i guess top tom too, i'm sorry tom, kings - Freeform, please do not judge me, sir thomas sharpe - Freeform, smut smut smut, tom goes and fucks himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_wolf_tears_through/pseuds/The_wolf_tears_through
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's a terrible title. My apologies.  </p><p>TouchWorks International uses Tom as a model for one of their new virtual reality programs - you can really touch them, and they touch you back.  But something goes haywire, and things get..... complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For Charity

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo. I generally don't do RPF, because it unsettles me some, so be gentle with me. This started off as a one-shot made at the behest of a friend, and then the idea wouldn't let me go. So... sorry, Tom. So sorry. I hope to god you never see this. BUT THE REST OF YOU, enjoy.

Tom drummed his fingers on the surface of the laptop's keyboard, rubbing his mouth as he stared at the screen. The homepage for TouchWorks International (Your Dreams At Your Fingertips) was open in the browser and the new display was up. After two years of hard work, rendering, and tinkering with technology he didn't fully understand even now, they had finally launched the site.

Initially, he'd been stunned when they'd approached him, more so when they'd sent Sharesse - a tall, statuesque black woman in a severe business suit - over to discuss the finer details.

He'd sat where he was right now, serving her tea and goggling, his mouth hanging open like a beached fish. "You want me to what?"

She took a sip, eyeing him cooly over the rim of the cup. "Be a model, Mister Hiddleston. That's all it is. Surely you're aware of your popularity with both genders? Age ranges, from teenager to grandparents?"

"Well, yes, but..," he floundered. "This is ... too much. I mean, I'm sincerely, truly flattered, but ... It's a very intimate, erm... private thing you're asking me to do, and I don't think I could ... ah .... perform under those kinds of ..."

"All proceeds will go to the charity of your choice."

He stopped. "What?"

She smiled, knowing then she had him. "Of course. We want to save the world, just like you do. This software will generate millions of pounds, if not more, and all of your portion can go to anything you choose. Every time you get a hit, boom, there it goes, straight to good works around the globe."

She leaned in. "You'd be a super hero. For real."

He'd twitched. "But... all the people who buy it..."

"Customers. Helping to raise funds for important work." She looked him over, crossing her legs. "And by the look of you, I'd wager very satisfied customers. Maybe even repeat business. Good for us, and good for you, too. Imagine: being able to dump a hundred thousand pounds into UNICEF and satisfying the curiosity of your entire fan base simultaneously."

He'd sighed, running a hand through his hair. Honestly, how bad could it be? The way people fell over themselves at cattle calls, press releases, hell, the supermarket that one time... he might be able to get some peace out of the deal. If they could have him, really have him, perhaps some of the mania would die down and he could stop shielding himself so hard. And it really was for charity.

"Ok. Ok, I'll do it." He spread his hands on the table, hoping (not for the last time) that he was making the right decision. "So how's it done? The... touch thing?"

"That," she'd said, sliding papers over to him to sign, "is strictly confidential."

So here he sat in his kitchen, staring at the completed project. They'd sent him a package to let him know the site was live: a little box with one of the neural headsets they used to run the program, along with a note.

"Tom - please enjoy a freebie on us! This is only good for your first encounter, so choose wisely. All the best - S."

He looked over at the box sitting in its pile of torn up paper, then back at the menu screen, frowning. There were so many choices to pick from. Beautiful women, hunky men, a few very surprising Hollywood elite. He knew some of them personally, and quickly scrolled past. He spied his own name among them, next to his current headshot, and glanced at the counter.

6,453.

His eyes widened. At £350 a pop that was ... well...

"A fuckload," he muttered, sitting back in his chair. He remembered what they'd had him do in the studio and blushed mightily. Nearly seven thousand people experiencing that. 

He click his name, and a drop down menu appeared. His eyebrows shot up to see not one or two, but five of his characters pop up, not including the slot that was just plain him. He wondered briefly how many of those people were purchasing whom. They had the stately Henry, brooding Adam, intriguing Dr. Laing, ill-fated Thomas Sharpe, and ....

"Loki," he murmured, tapping a nail against his teeth. Of course they would. Loki was always extremely popular. Curious, he clicked the link.

Immediately, a picture of the smirking demigod filled the screen, all green and gold armour, pale skin, raven hair, legs a mile apart in a stance that oozed power and control. Tom frowned back at him, squinting at the bio underneath.

"Enjoy an evening with Loki, the God of Mischief himself. Choose from three settings - gentle, intense, or dominant (health forms required) - and be whisked away to Asgard for a night you won't soon forget. Loki is fully equipped to make sure you get exactly what you need (provided you give your loyalty over to him). TouchWorks International reminds you to enjoy responsibly."

Tom groaned aloud. You'd think for the amount of money they'd thrown at this thing, they could afford a better writer. He made a mental note to never again say anything that could be used in a blurb.

He glanced over again towards the neural headset. Picked it up. Twirled it in his fingertips, eyeing the god mocking him from the screen. He hadn't filmed anything dressed as Loki, and definitely not anything that classified as "dominant", so what were they pulling from? He put the neural set on, adjusting it to fit. Drummed his fingers against the table, his leg bouncing. Loki stared at him, seeming to say 'yes, that's it, come on then'. Would he really use his freebie on this? Him? Himself? How arrogant was that?

"Fuck it," he muttered and hovered the mouse over the start button, clicking the link.

The neutral transmitter gave a high pitched whine and his vision blurred.

"Ah shit!" He cried out, his eyes screwing shut against the wave of weird tingling nausea that overcame him. It passed as soon as it began, and when he opened his eyes, he gasped. 

He wasn't in his kitchen anymore. The familiar high top table and sunny south facing windows were gone, replaced instead by a dark but splendid room, the furniture plush and covered in soft looking furs, a bed hung with draperies in one corner. In the other, a fire was crackling in a huge black fireplace, and when he approached it, he could actually feel the heat radiating towards him, the fur rug beneath his bare toes.

"Amazing," he said aloud, marvelling.

"Hello, mortal," said a deep, velvety voice behind him.

He swung around, a yip of surprise escaping him.

Tom's mouth fell open. "Oh holy shit."

Stalking towards him from across the room was Loki, his armour gleaming in the firelight, eyes glittering with a quality in his stare Tom was sure he'd never used in his real life. The walk he recognised as the swagger he'd practised for the role. The rendering was absolutely perfect. Loki got close to him, almost chest to chest, and eyed him up and down, clenching his jaw.

"A man this time," Loki said, his eyes meeting Tom's as he grinned wolfishly. "I do like variety in my playthings."

Tom stared, completely disbelieving. He put out a hand experimentally, laying it on the simulation's chest. Sure enough, he could feel the leather, cool and smooth under his hand. He could even feel the rise and fall of Loki's chest when he breathed. 

"Fuck," he said.

Loki lifted his hand, running fingertips Tom could feel up Tom's arm. "Oh yes. I intend to."

"Wait, wait, no," Tom stuttered, backing away from the god. "It's not like that, man. I just ...I'm not here to ... I wanted to see how this all worked."

Loki tilted his head, his smile fading. "Let me tell you how it works. You come to me," he took a measured step closer to where Tom had backed up to the wall. Another. "And then I give you what you need."

Loki pressed against Tom, hands coming up on either side to pin the actor in place. Tom stuttered, eyes wide at the proximity. He could feel him, fuck, he could smell him, like wintergreen and leather, woodsy, smoky, male. Loki eyed him fiercely, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips in anticipation. 

"God damn, that is intense," Tom said, his clenched hands coming to rest on Loki's waist.

"You have chosen 'intense'," said a disembodied female voice somewhere near his ear.

"What? No, I..."

But then Loki's mouth covered his own in a searing kiss, and, struggle as he might, Tom found he couldn't get away. He put his hands up to push Loki off, but the God's fingers closed on his wrists, lifting them over his head and pinning them there.

Too strong, Tom thought, he's so fucking strong, jesus christ.

Loki pulled away from Tom's mouth and looked him straight in the eyes. When he spoke, Tom could feel his lips brush against his own. "What's wrong, human? Do you not wish to be consort to a god?"

Tom shook his head. "Mate, you've got the wrong idea, I think. See, I'm .... I'm you ... sort of ... and this whole thing is just ... it's not real... let me go, please."

"Not real," Loki said quietly, chuckling. "So I suppose the thing you have digging into my hip... that isn't real either, hm?"

Loki shoved his thigh between Tom's, parting his legs and lifting him off his feet for a moment.

"Wh -," Tom began, but was cut off when Loki's hips ground into him. He groaned audibly, cursing himself for the fact that Loki was right. It was no secret he liked being manhandled a bit, and Loki, well... knew him. Was him. Something. And it's not like the first time he'd seen himself dressed as Loki, he hadn't gotten a raging hard on seeing his body in those clothes. Strange as it might seem, he found himself wretchedly turned on at the prospect of getting to explore this particular simulation. Here, he was safe enough. Virtual reality wasn't reality, and things admitted here weren't things he had to face in the real world. Right?

Loki leaned in and pressed his mouth to Tom's again, much more gently but insistent, and this time, Tom relented. The god's tongue probed his mouth, a silvery taste of snow invading Tom's taste buds, the press of his body heavy and hot and there. He sucked at Loki's tongue, relishing the groan that vibrated into his mouth as Loki fisted his curls at the nape of his neck.

Loki released Tom's hands so he could stray beneath the man's shirt, the god's mouth sucking fiercely at the junction of his neck and shoulder while educated fingers stroked and plucked at him. Tom groaned and let his head fall to the side, his own hands clutching at Loki's shoulders, his hips beginning to move of their own accord.

"Oh, now, see," Loki chuckled into his neck, his tongue swiping at Tom's pulse, "that's what Iike to see. Obedience. Deference. Desire."

Loki nipped savagely at his ear, making Tom gasp. "We will have quite a lot of fun tonight, won't we?"

Reeling from the sensations, Tom nodded.

Still chuckling darkly, Loki backed off enough to peel Tom's shirt from him and toss it indifferently over his shoulder before sweeping them both onto a pile of furs near the hearth. Tom landed on his back with an "oof", and soon found himself pinned beneath Loki's administrations. Loki pushed his thighs up and apart, the God's hips undulating against his ass as Loki nipped, sucked, dug his fingers in, explored his mouth, his chest, his stomach.

"My god," Tom gasped when Loki bit down just below his belly button.

"For now," Loki growled, fingers deftly popping the button on Tom's jeans before tugging them off in one fell swoop.

Tom had a moment of self consciousness, lying there, naked and painfully erect while Loki's gaze raked over him. Tom gulped back the urge to tell him to stop, that this was the worst kind of self serving nonsense, but Loki's eyes caught his and they looked hungry. So hungry. Loki reached for him, the hands calloused just as his own were, the familiar rasp of his own hands gliding up his legs. The program was good, too good, seemed to know what he wanted because Loki's fingertips were running over his hips, his stomach, up between his thighs with featherlight touches before the god finally gripped his cock and began to stroke.

Tom's hands came up and he covered his face, moaning when Loki squeezed him, hips bucking up when Loki's other hand came up to tug on his balls.

I didn't film anything like this, he thought. Didn't. Wouldn't have. How do they know?

He felt fingers creep up his chest, the pace of the stroking never wavering as Loki pulled his hands away. The god's eyes glittered, heavy lidded with lust. "Do not hide from me, mortal. Show me your pleasure. Let me hear it. Do you like this?"

Loki squeezed. 

Tom arched into his hand, gasping. "I ... yes, I ... I do..."

Loki grinned. "Good. Would you like more?"

Tom eyed him dubiously. "If I say yes... ah ... what happens?"

"Whatever you wish. Nothing you don't. I am here to make your fantasy come to life." Loki's hips pressed against Tom's ass again from the v of his spread legs. Tom could feel the ridge of Loki's erection pressed against him through the leather. Tom had a moment to wonder blurrily just how alike he and this simulation were.

"Whatever I want," Tom mused. "Can you ... can you ditch the leather?"

"Of course." Loki snapped his fingers and, in a shimmer of green and gold, his armour vanished.

"Whoa," Tom breathed, utterly stunned.

It was less like looking in a mirror and more like looking at someone who simply resembled him. Loki was long and lean, just like him, but more lightly muscled. His skin was pale and smooth, with none of the freckles or tanned complexion from being out in the sun on location filming for weeks at a time. This was his body, to be sure, but his body from, say, six years ago, and different in enough ways that Tom felt less strange about the encounter than he had moments ago. He took a glance down south.

Well.

Maybe not so different after all.

Loki leaned forward, crawling over Tom's body until their bodies were pressed fully together, his mouth meeting Tom's briefly again, his cock rubbing against Tom's with the undulations of his hips. Tom clutched at him, moaning into Loki's shoulder, biting into the soft flesh there.

"Let me show you how much pleasure I can give you," Loki growled into his ear, and Tom felt the slickness of precum pooling on the tip of his swollen, aching cock, slicking them both against his belly. "I cannot - "

He sucked at Tom's neck, his fingers delving into the panting man's hair. " - go any further - "

Loki nipped at the notch in Tom's throat, his tongue flicking into the impression. " -without your consent."

"Yes, god yes, ok? Yes," Tom rasped desperately, his fingers delving into Loki's inky tresses and tugging.

Loki growled low in his throat, his eyes meeting Tom's and never wavering as he began to nip and suck his way down Tom's chest once more. He licked at the muscles of Tom's stomach, his tongue leaving a trail of fire on Tom's hips. When he settled between Tom's thighs he gave a wicked grin before sucking Tom's heavy cock into his mouth.

Tom arched immediately, a strangled cry clawing its way out of his throat. Loki's mouth worked him expertly, his tongue moving in slow circles on the way down and flicking at the tip as he came back up. While he sucked, his hands were never still. They touched, caressed, massaged, tugged, leaving Tom in a sweating haze of pleasure.

"J-Jesus.....," Tom stuttered, his thighs beginning to quake. If Loki kept it up, he'd be coming in minutes.

Tom's head snapped up when he felt Loki's fingers creep into the cleft of his ass, somehow slick and ready. He thought to protest, to insist Loki stop, but then one long digit was pushing its way gently, insistently into his body and he let out a long, low moan instead. It was soon followed by another, the stretched feeling of fullness coupled with the wet sucking Loki was lavishing on his cock sending bright sparks of burgeoning orgasm through every synapse. 

Tom started to rock on those slender digits, vaguely remembering a time or two in the shower when he'd done this to himself while stroking off, his hips coming up to fuck into Loki's throat. The god chuckled darkly around him, not seeming to mind at all when Tom grabbed a fistful of his hair and pushed him down to the root. Tom's toes dug into the furs, his free hand clutching hard at the edge of the hearth, knuckles white and face beginning to drip sweat.

But Loki wasn't ready for this to be over, it seemed, because the next moment a hand with a grip like iron wrenched Tom's fingers from his hair. Loki's head came up and Tom whined at the loss of contact, but still Loki's fingers worked inside of him, drawing deeply in and out. Loki reached behind Tom's head and pulled him close, sucking at Tom's lips before he spoke.

"Oh, pet," Loki said, his voice barely a whisper, "I am going to take you now, right here, on this rug. You will be stretched, filled with me, and in the end, you will beg me to breed you like the whore you are."

Tom was speechless. Never in his life had he ever said such a thing, or had such a thing said to him. But god help him, his guts gave a lurch, his skin prickled, and he found himself saying, "...... please."

Loki grinned his feral grin and hauled Tom up unto his thighs, withdrawing his fingers. He held his hand up to Tom's face. "Spit, pet. Lots of it."

Tom did as he was told, spitting everything he could muster into Loki's waiting palm. Loki added some of his own and smeared the mix of their fluids unto his jutting cock, lubing himself with a sigh. That done, he held an arm like a steel bar against Tom's back, rubbing the head of his cock against Tom's waiting entrance. 

Tom tensed momentarily. This was new territory for him and Loki was .... well, call it as is, as well endowed as he was. He thought it would probably hurt, but when he felt Loki push in just a bit, the tiniest bit, he knew it wouldn't be so. Intense new sensations flooded him as Loki rocked his hips, gently pushing upward to breach Tom's ass an inch at a time. He clutched at Loki's back, pressing himself against Loki's chest, his hips undulating to catch Loki's rythym. 

To his surprise, Loki gasped, his fingers coming up to cup Tom's ass and hold him. "Yes, pet, ride me. Use me for your pleasure."

So. The simulation was good enough to recognise its own pleasure. Fascinating in its own right, but, at this moment, not as important as the sounds Loki was making when Tom began to really roll his his body. Loki gripped him hard, pulling him in as Tom pushed down, rocking them both and hitting a spot inside Tom that nobody, not even he, had ever found. Tom swore loudly, his face and chest pink with the heat coursing through him, the warning tingle of fast approaching orgasm starting at his hairline and the base of his spine. 

"L-Loki," he gasped, "I'm. ... I think I'm going to..."

"Not yet," Loki growled loudly, his teeth gnashing together. He pulled Tom's face down to kiss him, up ending the man so he was back on his back again. Loki grabbed (a very surprised) Tom's legs and put them up on his shoulders, driving into Tom with a force that was near punishing.

Folded nearly in half, the head of Loki's cock grinding on his prostate with every stroke, Tom saw stars, his toes fanning as he made incoherent sounds of pleading.

"Tell me you like this," Loki sneered at him from above, "Tell me you like being fucked like this."

Loki's hips gave a sharp snap for emphasis, and Tom nearly shouted, "YES! Fuck, yes, I like it, I love it, keep going, please, just a little more...."

"More, hey?" Loki laughed. "Oh, mortal, I shall give you all you can take."

Loki's hips began to move in a punishing rythym, slamming into Tom at a frantic pace. One hand snaked between them and gripped Tom's cock, stroking in time to the furious motion of his hips and Tom could take no more.

"FUCK, Loki I'm coming, ohhhh, fucking SHIT, I'm coming..."

"Do you want to feel me spill - ah - into you?"

"FUCK, YES, CHRIST..."

"....F-FUCK...."

Tom came with a shout in a huge spurt between them, coating his stomach and Loki's hand. At the same instant, Loki's eyes rolled back in his head and Tom felt the hot stickiness of the god's semen painting him from within. Tom moaned aloud as shudders of pleasure racked his body, his head falling back in bliss. Loki slowed to a stop, allowing Tom to ride the waves of pleasure before halting completely. 

Out of breath, sweating, Loki slid out of Tom carefully, flopping next to him on the rug. They both lay there for a minute, panting. Loki sucked at his fingers, a little hum of pleasure echoing in Tom's ears. Eventually, Loki propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Tom, a smirk touching the corners of his mouth. 

"Enjoy?" Loki trailed a hand up Tom's abdomen.

Barely coherent, Tom nodded, reaching up to stroke Lokus knuckles. "Very much."

"You preferences have been noted."

"What?" Tom asked, before the high pitched whine invaded his senses again, forcing him to screw his eyes shut against the wave of nausea.

When it finally, mercifully passed, Tom opened his eyes to find himself once more in his kitchen at home, but on the floor, his bare ass sticking to the cold tiles. Naked, sweating, covered in his own semen, he glanced dazedly around. His shirt was draped over the tap in the sink, his pants dangling from one if the knob on the cupboards. 

"Holy fuck," he muttered, swiping a handover his mouth. "Holy. Fuck."

*********

"Look, I don't really care how much it costs, it's all going to charity anyway," Tom said into the phone, mildly annoyed. "Yes. A year membership. All access. Yes, including ... yes, him. Ok? Ok. Thank you so much. Bye."

He hung up his phone and stuffed it in his pocket, humming to himself as he selected groceries off the shelves to put in his basket. He was deliciously sore, but hungrier than he'd been in months. And, ok, yes, happier. He put a can of corn in his basket with the rest of the things and headed to the checkout.

In line, he turned to see a pretty young woman standing behind him. She glanced up and he saw her eyes light up with recognition. She stepped forward, her lips parting slightly. 

Crap, here we go, he thought.

He smiled at her, hoping she was at least one of the sane ones. "Hello."

She opened her mouth to speak, but then her eyes went wide and she blushed to the tips of her ears, her jaw snapping shut. 

"Um, I'm sorry, I uh, I have to go right away. You were very, uh.... It was nice to .... uh, nice to meet you," she stammered, hurriedly stuffing her items back in her basket before hightailing it away.

"Thanks for your donation!" He called after her, chuckling.


	2. Cry God For Harry

It was freezing.

Tom's first coherent thought after the whining of the neural headset dissipated was that he should have put on a jacket. Back home it was fairly warm, unseasonably so for winter in London, but here in the simulation it was October of 1415, and even inside this tent where he'd ended up, the bitterness of outside crept around leaving goosebumps on his bare arms. He rubbed them with his hands, listening, feeling.

Shouts outside the tent flap caught his attention and he moved cautiously to the door, twitching aside the heavy drapery to peer out, squinting at the sudden brightness. Men in armour bustled back and forth, some leading horses, some carrying weapons, still others helping wounded men across the field to tents that flapped noisily in the wind. Everywhere was grass and mud, the not so distant sounds of battle carried to his ears by the clear coldness of the day.

"Agincourt," he breathed, stepping out in amazement to look around. A pair of pages shouldered roughly past him from the front and he was spun, nearly falling to his knees as their haste brought them to the man they were going to help.

Tom gasped when he saw him, sitting astride his white horse, metal plate gleaming in the sun as he swung one long leg over to step down with the help of one of the pages. His hair blew back from his face in a dark red wave, close cropped beard and dire expression making his muddy, bloodied face seem older than his twenty eight years. Henry. 

Tom watched, open mouthed, as he bent to speak to the young page, patting the nodding boy on the shoulder before straightening up. He turned and spied Tom standing there and, after dismissing his attendees, strode with all the purpose of a King toward where Tom stood.

"Come with me," he muttered, walking past and into the tent without a backward glance.

Tom watched the tent flap close behind him, and, with a small pang of regret that he couldn't fully explore this simulated world, followed Henry inside. 

Henry stood with his back to Tom, tugging his leather gloves off, tossing them onto a low table. Once off, he turned and motioned for Tom to come closer.

Swallowing hard, Tom stepped up next to Henry, who held out his arms. Confused, Tom glanced up into his eyes. Henry raised an eyebrow, a bemused smile on his face.

Seeing that Tom truly had no idea what to do, Henry chuckled, saying, "I'faith, I've always found it difficult devesting myself of the trappings of war without assistance."

"Oh!" Tom exclaimed, startled. Of course. Henry was a king, he had squires and maids to do these kinds of things.

I guess I'm his servant this go around, Tom thought, a shiver creeping up his spine as he used his nimble fingers to unlace the bracers. Tom's eyes kept flicking up to Henry's, to the little smile tugging the corners of his mouth, his gaze cool and even as he watched Tom work. Mildly disconcerted, Tom fumbled with a particularly intricate knot, gritting his teeth in concentration. When they were both undone, Tom placed them gently on top of the gloves and Henry turned so he could better reach the straps at his back that held his breastplate. Tom worked at them diligently, until they were finally undone, and Henry let out a sigh, pulling the armour off and tossing it indifferently to the ground. Next they wrangled with the chainmail, the two of them wrestling with it until it fell heavy into Tom's arms and Henry let out a satisfied groan.

"Better, my, erm.... my... lord?" Tom asked, setting the heavy chain aside, unsure how to proceed. This man was him, in the most technical of senses, but also a King in this present moment.

I'm trying not to offend a computer program, he thought wryly.

He needn't have worried, because when Henry turned, he was smiling more broadly then before. He touched his chest. "Harry. Just Harry is sufficient."

"Harry," Tom said, smiling back. At least this one wasn't as haughty as Loki had been.

At that moment, the tent flap opened and the page Henry had spoken to earlier walked in, staggering some with the weight of a large, steaming bronze pot full of water. This he set down at Tom's feet and, with a bow to his King, exited as quickly as he'd come.

Curious, Tom peered into the container. Hot water, with a large, red square of cloth slung over the side. Tom looked back up at Henry, who was peeling his sweat and dirt stained shirt off.

Tom's heart sped up. Oh dear.

He dropped to one knee and grabbed the rag, wringing it out, glancing up at Henry. The King was casually divesting himself of his boots and trousers, deftly popping the catches on the front of the codpiece and sliding his pants off before kicking them into the growing pile of garments. 

Once naked, he turned and faced Tom in the chill of the tent. He grinned as Tom looked him over. "To think, that one could find so timid a man among all this bloodshed."

Tom started at his words, a sheepish grin on his face and a blush touching the tips of his ears. "Not timid, my lord. Unsure how to proceed."

Harry laughed. "As one would with any other bare soldier, I warrant. Now come," he stretched his arms out from his sides, "if I remain so I fear I'll be better use as an ice sculpture than a leader."

Tom chuckled, tugging the cauldron behind him. He straightened up, his eyes level with Henry's as he used the rag to gently swipe the blood and dirt off the King's face. Henry's expression remain passive, but his eyes never wandered from their scrutiny of Tom's face. Tom moved to his neck, his arms, every once in a while dipping the rag and wringing it out so he could continue to clean Henry as well as he could. Tom knelt in front of him (the better to reach all the nether bits) and watched Henry's stomach tense as he sucked in a sharp breath.

Tom smirked to himself, running his hands up Henry's legs and between. He knew what he was doing. The evidence of Henry's approval was slowly rising in front of his very eyes. Henry gripped Tom's shoulder suddenly, and Tom looked up, his eyes coy and innocent. Henry's jaw was tensed, his eyes burning hot, his gaze speaking volumes about what Tom should do next.

Tom cleared his throat. "May I?"

Henry's jaw worked and he nodded.

Tom found Henry was as Loki had been, their cocks identical to his in every way. If that was so, and the program worked as he thought it did, then surely Henry would respond to ..... Tom licked his lips and eased forward, kissing the tip of Henry's cock, his tongue poking out to swipe the slit. He'd only done this particular act one other time, at school one drunken night with a friend, and had often wondered if it had been any good for the recipient. He'd been shy, halting, unsure of himself.

Can't be shy with a king, he thought.

"My god!" Henry gasped, his fingertips digging into Tom's shoulder as Tom slid his swollen cock between his lips. So maybe he wasn't so bad at this after all. Tom's own cock began to stiffen in his jeans. He worked Henry gently at first, his tongue swirling around the turgid flesh, testing himself to see how much of it he could take. As it turned out, quite a lot. Tom closed his eyes and groaned around Henry's shaft, taking him deeper with every stroke. He could taste the salt of the King's skin, feel the pulse of his veins under the thin membrane of flesh, and his body responded in a way he wasn't fully accustomed to. The program was good. Too good.

It felt almost shameful to be acting this way. This was himself, the worst kind of incestuous play time, but when Henry rolled his hips and Tom felt the head of his glorious cock strike the back of his throat, he found he didn't care. He palmed his growing erection through his jeans, moaning at the need for more friction.

Henry hissed through his teeth when Tom sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks around the tip, his hands straying up the King's legs to cup and tug at his balls. "Not so timid now, are we, dove? Stand for me. Rise."

Tom shook his head slightly, reaching around to cup Henry's ass and push him deeper. Not yet. There was too much fun to be had, too much learning to be done. But Henry's hand came down and fisted in his curls, tugging him up and off. Tom released him with a breathless pop, a strand of saliva stretching from his lips to the tip of Henry's angrily swollen cock breaking on the way up.

Henry pulled Tom close and kissed him, not as fiercely as Loki had, no, but in a way that made Tom feel claimed nonetheless. Henry pulled and tugged at his clothes, wordlessly commanding Tom to strip, his mouth and hands exploring each new bared expanse of flesh.

"When a King begs you rise," Henry growled, "you rise. Are we clear, lovely?"

Tom chuckled, nodding as he wriggled his way out of his pants. Once he was bare, he reached for Henry, but the King's hands caught his wrists and kept them away as he looked over Tom hungrily, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. Henry's hands grazed over Tom's skin, dipping into curves of muscle and hollows of bones, Tom's skin standing in goose bumps when Henry cupped his balls and tugged lightly. Henry hummed approval at the feel of Tom's swollen, leaking cock jumping when he encircled it, squeezing lightly as he stroked him.

Henry stepped closer, melting their bodies together as he tipped Tom's head to the side, planting wet, wanting kisses on the tanned, freckled skin. Henry was quietly thorough, teasing and kissing Tom's body into an aching frenzy of need.

When Henry's head dipped so he could take one of Tom's straining nipples between his teeth, Tom arched and groaned, his hand coming up to grasp the King's reddish curls in his fist. "Ah .... please...."

Henry stopped, looked up, a mischievous grin spreading over his mouth. "Please what?" He asked, sucking again so that his beard tickled Tom's chest.

"Please. ... Harry...," Tom said, haltingly, unsure how to ask for what he wanted, needed, was aching for.

The King's lashes lowered, and he nibbled his lower lip in thought. "Follow."

Henry turned and strode toward the corner of the tent, his ass jiggling tantalisingly so that Tom double timed to follow it. The King glanced over his shoulder at his companion and pulled back a flap to reveal within a small, low ceilinged antechamber. Inside was a feather bed resting on the ground, heaped with silky blankets and soft pillows. In was so low and small they had to stoop to get in, but once he was seated and Henry let the flap fall back dim light filtered through the canvas, giving the little "room" a romantic glow. Tom smiled to himself, pleased to be allowed in here. This wasn't the dark, firelit floor of Loki's "room". This was a King's resting place during battle. The bed was plush when Henry gently pushed Tom onto his stomach, the King's teeth grazing the skin between his shoulders as Henry climbed on top of him.

Once Tom was pinned, Henry's cock nuzzling in the cleft of his ass, the king began to mumur in his ear words that made him shiver.

"Your skin is softer and more smooth than any linen I have felt against me," Henry cooed, his hands running over Tom while his hips rocked, teasing, "I shall make your body a temple, and I shall worship at the altar of your sighs."

God help me, Tom thought, a languid feeling of desire spreading him like warm butter under Henry's hands. I could get used to this.

Henry's lips moved down his spine, nipping, sucking here and there until he bit gently on the rounded top of Tom's ass cheek. Tom hissed a bit between his teeth at the sharp sting, looking over his shoulder. He met Henry's eyes in the half light, saw them dark and glittering with a look that made Tom's cock swell where it was trapped between his body and the bed. Henry massaged Tom's cheeks, parting them, his head dipping down.

"What -," Tom began, but then Henry's tongue began to swirl around his back entrance and all questions were replaced by new, very intimate sensation. "Oh! Oh, fuck! Harry, you don't - ah fuck - you don't have to - "

Harry stopped only long enough to say quietly, "I want to. Peace and be still."

Tom's fingers dug into the sheets, balling their silk into his white knuckled fist. His eyes slipped shut, the eyelids fluttering while Henry lapped at him. Tom bit his knuckle, stifling a cry when Henry's naughty tongue breached him, pushed in, wiggled. The sensation was unlike anything he'd experienced before.

There was a twinge of mild embarrassment, a balking of his senses that insisted this was just not done, this was wrong, but... ah, when it felt like that, it was hard to feel shame. Tom had a moment where he wondered if this had been part of Henry's carousing education before he'd turned himself into one of history's greatest men.

If so, god bless whatever whore it was who taught him, Tom thought.

Tom's face flushed and he arched his back, lifting himself slightly to his knees to give Henry better access to him. Henry moaned and wrapped his strong fingers around Tom's thighs, parting him further, redoubling his efforts.

Tom cried out, his face flushed as he panted. "H-Harry.... I want. ... oh, please will you... Harry..."

Henry ceased his licking, pulling up and wiping his mouth, running a hand down the column of Tom's sweating spine. Tom didn't have to ask at all, it seemed, because Henry knew. He spit into his hand, rubbing the wetness onto his jutting cock before placing the tip against Tom's slick entrance.

"You sing so prettily for me," he said, his quiet voice husky. He petted Tom's glistening hole with the head of his cock, teasing the entrance by pushing in only slightly before pulling away and continuing to stroke. "These are bedroom hymns to a god of desire, a god of need. Your melodies are sweet, even to the ears of a King. Do you need me, Tom? Do you care to let me write another verse upon your body?"

The sound of his voice coupled with the stroking at his entrance was maddening, stoking a fire already burning nearly out of control. Tom felt his cock leaking, glanced down to see a pool of his own precum shining on the sheets, and beyond, his legs and Henry's tangled together in sex. It was too much.

"Yes, god yes, please," he breathed.

Henry chuckled low under his breath, and, with one hand resting on Tom's hip and the other to guide him, pushed into Tom's shivering, willing body. "Once more into the breach...."

Tom inhaled sharply at the intrusion, how Henry nudged slowly forward until his hips met Tom's backside and he sighed. It was not as it had been with Loki. Henry was gentle but firm, implacable, angling his hips to graze against every sensitive spot within Tom's body, insistently caressing him, bringing him steadily higher with determined abandon. This was not to rough claiming of an unruly god. This was the quiet sureness of a ruler. This was ownership of every bead of sweat, every breath that carried a sigh or gasp. This was the sight of heaven to an earthly supplicant.

Tom's hips began to roll, pushing him back into Henry, willing him to go deeper. Henry complied, lowering his front onto Tom's back, his lips ghosting over Tom's shoulders and neck while he worked. 

"Hold your ground," Henry growled in his ear. Tom was nearly incoherent with pleasure, but when Henry shifted and put his full weight on Tom's back, he understood. He splayed his hands, willed the muscles he'd worked so hard for to hold them both up even as he shook. Henry's hands roamed over his sides while he thrust, one dipping south and the other north. One hand tip tapped its way around Tom's collarbones, finally coming to rest encircling the pulsing column of his throat, while the other strayed down to stroke Tom's weeping cock.

"Oh my lord!" Tom choked out, the added pleasure of Henry's stroking causing tendrils of heat to pool low in his belly. Henry stroked and teased in time with the motion of his rutting, his thumb gliding over Tom's slit while his hips ground against Tom's ass in short, purposeful thrusts. "Ha-Harry, please, it's so.... I'm ... I'm so close...."

"Yes," was all the king said, his grip on Tom's neck tightening, making Tom's vision sparkle. Tom could feel Henry's breath on his neck, the heat of his body, the grip if his calloused fingertips squeezing his throat. In gasps, Henry spoke again. "I want you to think - ah - of this, later on, when you're alone. We will be down - mmph - together in your sleep, my shy beauty. It will be my tongue parting you when you touch yourself. My hands when you pluck and tug at your skin. You will dream of a King's seed running down your thighs."

The wave that had been building crested and broke when Henry said those words. Tom wailed as he came, his voice breaking, hot spurts of his semen pouring out onto the silk sheets, his fingers and toes splayed and digging for purchase as the earth fell away from his grasp. His body spasmed and he felt Henry swell and come inside him, heard him moan his completion, the grip on his neck almost unbearably tight for a moment until Henry relaxed. They stayed that way for a moment, Henry's forehead pressed against Tom's back between his shoulder blades, his hands coming down to steady them both as they panted.

Tom sighed when Henry slipped out of him. The King urged him to lay down beside him, his gentle kisses and caressing leading his panting, shivering, spent body to a place of warm relaxation. Henry curled around him like a cat, their bodies pressed together for warmth in the chill air of the tent. 

"Did I hurt you?" The King murmured in his ear.

"Not at all," Tom whispered, languishing in the stroking of Henry's fingers over his face, neck, flanks, hips.

"I am not like the other one," Henry said, his voice grave as his lips moved against Tom's neck. "They wrote him hard. He takes. He's selfish. But mine is a gentle conquest, and I keep what I've won."

Tom's heavy eyelids cracked open and he turned his head to peer at Henry in the dimness, his brows knit in concentration. He found the King's expression stoic as stone, tinged with sadness. What part of the program was this? "What do you mean? He who?"

Henry smiled at him softly and shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but a loud whine filled Tom's ears, the nausea of the change gripping him before he could hear. He squeezed his eyes shut as before, and when he opened them again, Henry, the tent, the cold of Agincourt was gone.

This time Tom had been smart enough to start the program up in his bedroom, and he hauled himself up, sighing, picking up his strewn clothes and knocked over laptop, mulling over Henry's words thoughtfully. 

I keep what I've won. 

Tom frowned. He took off the neural headset and placed it delicately on his bedside table, staring at it. The program was so strange. Those men. Loki. Henry. Him. All him. But somehow.... not. Perhaps a bit more exploration was in order.

Just to figure it all out, he reasoned.

He whistled on his way to the shower.


	3. Harmony

Tom was distracted. 

A little time off between projects had afforded him added hours to do things at his own pace, to leisurely pass the holidays with friends and family, to get a few things done here and there around his house he didn't trust the house sitters to do while he was away. True, he was mostly puttering around, pulling pleasure reading from the giant stack of unread books he'd collected during work weeks, and the little work he did have to do was mostly revision, but he found his mind wandering at the oddest times. He'd read a line in a novel and it would remind him, and then his off his mind would go on a tangent again.

Back to TouchWorks International and its damn virtual reality world. Back to the windy cold and mud of Agincourt. Back to Henry, and what he'd said. 

What could he possibly have meant by "I keep what I've won"?

Tom looked down at the book in his lap, open to the same page it had been an hour ago, his brow creasing in thought. Why couldn't he just forget it? It had already kept him from fulfilling one actual conquest of his own. The pretty brunette he'd been courting off and on for a few months had left, unsatisfied, and not called again after she'd made the mistake of asking about the headset in his bedroom. He'd stupidly launched into an excited explanation. After that, his mind had wandered off her and back to Henry and he'd been unable to continue. They'd had a row and she left, shouting over her shoulder about how she could live with a man who couldn't always be present, but not one physically there and absent. He mentally admonished himself that it was unhealthy to get so caught up in such things. That it wasn't real.

Still.

He sighed, closed the book, and headed to his bedroom. He decided he'd use the headset once more, confront Henry if he could, find out what all that business had been about, then be done with it. He told himself that likely the program wouldn't even "remember" what had happened, and just play the fantasy from square one. That Henry's speech was just some error in code or something, and that afterwards he could just get on with his life and toss the bloody thing in the bin. Maybe call the brunette and ask for another shot, if she'd have him.

He plopped down on his bed, bare toes tucked under him cross legged. Once comfortable, he slipped on the headset and flipped open his laptop, typed in the url and scrolled to his own section.

"I am paying these people to literally go fuck myself," he said wryly, clicking the drop down menu. "How fucked up is that."

He moused over Henry's name and clicked. The page appeared with Henry's steely gaze staring back at him and Tom's heart sped up, but he frowned when he saw the words writ large in a dialogue box to the side. 

[ Oops! This page temporarily unavailable for maintenance purposes. Please feel free to select one of our other fine choices! ]

He leaned back against the headboard, mildly annoyed. It was already broken? How disappointing. Tom rubbed his mouth.

I wonder if any of the other pages have issues? He thought, clicking the back button. The next on the menu bar was quiet, brooding Adam. He clicked that one and his face popped up, angular and melancholy.

"Step into the night with Adam, an intriguing, mysterious vampire sure to set your soul on fire. Choose from one of two venues : crumbling Detroit or steamy Tangier. His love is ancient and true, sure to quicken the pulse of even the most reticent of lovers!"

"Jesus Christ," Tom chuckled. "I've read better blurbs on the back of shampoo bottles."

He hesitated, running a finger over his lips. Adam had been fun to play, with his dry humour and vast musical knowledge. Maybe if he indulged himself, just once more, he could put this whole thing to bed. Forget the program, forget the weird feeling of duality. Forget Henry and his grave expression and kind eyes.

He clicked the link for Detroit and muscled through the now familiar sickening whine.

The first thing he became aware of was sound. Everywhere, sound, in his ears, vibrating in the floor under his legs, in the wall at his back. Dark, sombre music seemed to permeate the place where he now found himself seated. It had been hot when they'd filmed in Detroit, and so it was in the simulation, a clinging steaminess that left every inch of his skin feeling clammy. Tom hauled himself up and glanced around, recognising Adam's living room, with the musty couches and mouldering carpets. The smell of dank and dust wafted from everything, and a mist of dusty plaster shivered down from the ceiling in time with the thump of the music.

Tom followed the sound down the narrow corridor towards the back of the crumbling mansion, stopping here and there to marvel at the details. Here were the stack of amps he'd helped the crew carry in the first day of shooting. There the bit of carpet they'd used to hilariously roll up poor, duped Ian. Here were the shelves inlaid into the wall, with their collection of odds and ends. He recalled with pleasure the time he'd spent toying with them in between takes till he'd finally pocketed one as a keepsake for his own shelf at home. He picked up one of the vinyl records, some long-dead crooner from the forties, still quietly amazed that he could actually feel the grooves in the record. He glanced up at the other things on the shelf and stopped, an icy feeling settling in his stomach.

Sitting there at his eye level, among the other dusty relics, was a crown.

"Hello," he mumbled, placing the record gently down before picking up the crown. It was heavy, circular, studded on the outside with jewels, but not ostentatious. A prop he remembered very well, but not from this set. This was Henry's crown. "You don't belong here. What are you - "

His thought was cut off by the cessation of the music and a string of muffled swearing from further down the corridor. Hesitantly putting the crown back on its shelf, Tom went to investigate. 

He found Adam with his back turned, crouched down in front of a board covered in knobs and dials, adjusting levels of something or other, his bare toes digging into the carpet. He was shirtless, the muscles of his back smooth and cool despite the heat of the room, his shaggy head bent as he listened intently to a pair of large headphones strung around his neck. Tom cleared his throat to get his attention.

Adam swung around, suddenly up from his crouch and teeth bared angrily. When he saw Tom standing in the archway looking shocked, his look softened into one of mild reproach. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that, you know."

"I'm sorry," Tom said, smiling. "I wasn't trying to scare you."

"Scare me?" Adam chuffed out a rueful laugh. "The only thing that scares me is how terribly this recording is going. I can't find the sound I'm looking for and I just...." He threw up his hands in exasperation. "If my supply wasn't short I'd have a nip to get things flowing, but as it is, I can't spare any."

Tom hummed in understanding. So this was the game the program had set up for this character. He imagined a fair number of people had this kind of fantasy, but it wasn't something he'd ever explored. 

Well, he thought a trifle nervously, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"I think I...can help you with that," Tom said. Adam's head snapped up, and Tom faltered, suddenly feeling strangely shy. "I mean ... if you like. Your choice. Of course."

Adam scrutinised him, stepping closer. He got about six inches away, so close Tom could hear him breathing, smell his spicy, earthy scent. He looked Tom over for a few seconds, his gaze pensive, blue eyes flickering into an unsettling yellow. "Have you ever had a vampire fix off you before?"

"No," Tom chuckled at the question.

He immediately regretted laughing when Adam frowned. Of course here, in the simulation, vampires existed, and Adam's question was a legitimate one. Tom started to chide himself, but then remembered that Adam was just a bit of code no matter how realistic his disdain seemed.

I'll have to have a talk with those TouchWorks people about that, he thought. Or I'll be coming back trying to apologise to myself nightly.

He needn't have worried, because the look of incredulity flitted off Adam's face as quickly as it had come. A tiny smile touched the curves of his mouth instead and his lashes lowered, sooty and dark, when he spoke. "I'm not opposed. You smell .... clean. Delicious. But I have to warn you. For some, the fix can be a bit... intense."

"How so?"

"Well," Adam said, an almost embarrassed smile spreading over his mouth, "it's been a very long time since I've been at it with a zombie, but I recall some panting. A bit of begging. And a lot of legs locked around my waist."

Tom grinned. "Sounds exciting."

"Just so," Adam murmured. He lifted a hand to Tom, his other behind his back in what seemed a very formal gesture. "May I?"

Still smiling, Tom put his hand in Adam's. "By all means."

Adam bowed slightly and Tom found himself blushing despite himself. 

Honestly, he thought, you're not some teenage coquette at a ball, man. How many of these must you go through before -

But then Adam drew him closer, his cool body pressed into Tom's rapidly heating one, the hand that had been behind his back coming up to tip Tom's head to the side. Tom acquiesced, his pulse pounding in anticipation, throat working around the lump suddenly lodged in it. Adam brushed his lips against the vein showing in Tom's neck, his breath a hot puff raising goosebumps in its wake. "Are you nervous?"

"N... not really," Tom lied.

He felt Adam smile a little against his skin. "Here." 

His fingers untangled from Tom's and he reached over to flick the switch on a little turntable situated on the desk heaped with a hundred other bits of music paraphernalia. There was a crackle of static and then Bill Withers' melancholy voice washed around them. Adam put his arm around Tom's waist and began to sway gently, his other hand traveling slowly down Tom's back. Tom sighed and began to move in time to the tune, hands straying around to run up Adam's spine. Adam hummed under his breath, his lips running along Tom's neck, placing small, soft kisses along its length. Tom closed his eyes and rocked, letting the music soothe his nerves and Adam's touch coax him into a pleasant hypnotic state. Adam ran his tongue over Tom's pulse and Tom shivered, but it wasn't without pleasure.

"Better?" Adam murmured against him.

"Yes," Tom whispered.

"Good," Adam said, and closed his lips around Tom's jugular, biting down so softly Tom barely noticed his fangs slip in.

Adam moaned quietly at the taste of him and began to suck. A lightheadedness crept in, and Tom opened his eyes, found them fuzzy with sensation. He'd never thought of himself as being someone turned on by the idea of having his blood being drained, but now he found his body responding... interestingly. ... to Adam's attentions. He groaned, a bit louder than he intended, teeth clenching. He slipped his hands into the back of the waistband of Adam's pajamas, found him bare beneath the dark fabric, and pulled him close so he could grind his hips against the dark beast sucking loudly at his neck. Adam's tongue lapping at him coupled with the motion of his body against him had Tom practically panting until he saw it.

There, in the hallway. A shadow. Another person, taking cautious steps down the hall.

Tom yelped, pulling away from Adam so abruptly that they both stumbled, nearly toppling the table and causing the record to skip. Tom's eyes only slipped from the figure in the hall for a second, but when he looked back, it was gone.

The vampire looked at him with dazed confusion in his eyes, a bit of Tom's blood staining the corners of his mouth. "Have I hurt you?"

"No," Tom said, pointing towards the hall. "There's someone else here."

Adam glanced over his shoulder, then back at Tom, a look of bemusement on his face. "There is no one here but us."

"I saw him."

Adam shook his head, once again stepping close to envelop Tom in his arms. "Just you, me..." he laved his tongue up a dribble of blood trickling down to Tom's collarbones, "... and those delightful sounds you were making."

"You're sure?" Tom peered at the hall, cautious.

Adam chuckled. "Positive. There is no one in this fantasy house but me."

Tom started, his brow furrowing as he looked Adam over. "You're aware you're in a - "

"Stop," Adam said, his hands straying under Tom's shirt. "Do not break the spell."

Tom tried to protest, but then Adam's mouth was on his, blood tinged tongue begging entrance to his mouth, and Tom could do little but acquiesce. Adam sucked at his tongue and lips as passionately as he had Tom's neck, and very soon the shadow was forgotten. 

A glitch, his mind reasoned, as Adam worked to pull Tom's shirt up and over his head. He popped the button on Tom's fly and slipped one cool, long fingered hand down the front of his trousers, humming with approval when he found Tom sans underwear. Tom moaned when his fingers, calloused and dextrous from a hundred years of practice began to play him just as skillfully as any of his instruments. 

"Such beautiful sounds you make," Adam said huskily into his mouth, tugging at Tom's waistband to help discard the barrier between them. Tom writhed, helping to shake the offending garment off, until he stood bare to Adam's regard. The vampire ran cold fingers over his chest, abdomen, hips, eyes hungry for more than his fix. "My god, you are lovely."

Locking his mouth with Tom's, Adam began to back them toward the sofa at the other side of the room, until they reached it and Adam sat, pulling Tom down to straddle his lap. He stroked Tom expertly, thumb swiping the tip of his cock to collect the pooling beads of moisture and using them to lube the way while he squeezed and petted, his other hand gliding down Tom's spine to cup his ass. Tom rocked against him, the soft material of Adam's pajamas worn thin from countless ages of washing, the hardness of Adam's cock a counterpoint adding to every sensation. He pulled off Adam's mouth to nuzzle at the junction of his neck and shoulder, leaving his own marks as he sucked and nipped, moans of increasing pleasure muffled by the skin.

"Ah, yes," Adam panted, "that's the melody. Let me just..."

He slowed his stroking and grabbed a little remote stuffed in the cushions of the couch. With the press of a few buttons, the recording equipment whirred to life behind them. Tom looked down at Adam, questioning.

He tossed the remote and pulled Tom down for a searing kiss, chuckling. "I want to be able to play this back later, to hear you singing for me so beautifully."

You sing so prettily for me. Tom started. Henry had said that, too. Was the program repeating itself somehow?

Adam stroked the seam of Tom's balls with his pinky, squeezed his shaft so Tom stopped thinking and moaned. "I'll draw inspiration from your body in a gush, my love."

Tom was speechless, blushing to the tips of his ears. The simulations certainly knew how to up the ante when it came to pushing limits. He reached for the drawstring on Adam's pants, tugging the knot out so he could release Adam's swollen cock from its confines. All these simulations had taken him in his hesitance, gently guiding him to what he wanted, what he needed. Maybe something different was in order this time.

He stroked Adam lightly, biting his lip, searching Adam's face.

Adam pushed up into his hand, groaning and relishing Tom's attention. "I see you thinking. What is it you want? Tell me."

Tom grinned wolfishly. "Control."

Adam raised an eyebrow, glancing down at his cock being worked by Tom's fingers. "You have it."

"More."

Understanding dawned on Adam's face. "Ah."

The vampire stopped stroking and reached over to a little side table, digging around inside the drawer. He tossed something into the air, which Tom deftly caught. Looking into his hand, Tom saw he held a small, glass bottle in which some clear liquid slid from side to side when he gave it a shake. 

"To ease the way," Adam said simply, smirking.

Chuckling, Tom uncorked the little vial and pored some of the slippery liquid in his palm. Rolling it around in his hand to warm it first, he slid his hand over his own cock, shivering when the liquid caused a tingling heat to spread over his skin. He stroked, taking his time to reposition himself so his and Adam's cocks were close enough together that he could envelop them both in his large hand and continue.

And god, but it felt marvellous. Adam clutched at his arms, thrusting in time to Tom's rythym, their voices mingling in cries and little grunts of pleasure. The look of their lubricated, slippery, identical cocks pumping in his fist made Tom unbearably turned on, his eyes wide and shining as he stared down at the spectacle, lips parted as he panted. Adam wrapped his hand atound Tom's and squeezed, adding another layer of tightness to the act. Tom's synapses fired a warning shot and heat started to creep up his spine.

"Adam," he said in a dark voice, lashes low and eyes glittering.

The vampire bared his teeth in lust, fangs inching down again in voracious appetite. "Yes-s-s....?"

"I want to ... I need to... f-fuck you..."

"Ohhh.... yes... by - ah - all means..."

Tom let go and lifted himself up to straddle Adam's hips, the vampire working under him to get his pants farther off and give Tom access. Tom reached around and behind himself, grasping Adam's pulsing erection and guiding it where he wanted it most. 

From never being with a man to desperately wanting one inside me, he though, lowering himself down with a hiss. From this position, Adam was too big to take all at once, so Tom rocked, getting him in little by little, teasing them both gloriously. Adam gripped Tom's biceps, the strain of letting Tom take control etched on his face. But he allowed it, growling through his gritted teeth as Tom inched his way down. The penetration was easier with the lube than with saliva, Tom found, much more pleasant with the tingling warmth spreading through his insides, and soon he found himself fully seated in Adam's lap, breathing heavily. 

He was still for a moment, head tipped back, eyes closed, relishing the feeling of Adam's hands roaming over him while his cock pulsed within. He rolled his hips once, experimentally, and Adam gasped, his body jumping so his cock brushed deliciously against the aching, swollen spot inside. Tom let out a low moan, his hips beginning to move in earnest, seeking to press Adam against that spot as much as he could. Adam canted his hips, knowing what he needed, and oh god, it was perfect. They soon found a rythym, creating between them a symphony of ecstasy, a scale of pleasure ever rising amid bass notes of gasping, begging voices. 

"Just like that....mmph, yes..."

"Please...."

"F-fucking.... hell...."

"Oh, fuck yes, you feel..."

"Faster," Adam urged breathlessly, sitting up to wrap his arms around Tom and pull him down hard, fucking into him at a rapidity Tom wouldn't have thought possible were he not experiencing it. He matched Adam as best he could, pulling him close to his chest, his aching cock caught between their sweat slicked bodies, glorious friction pulling him towards the rapidly approaching edge.

Adam bit down hard just above his nipple and began to suck, deep, guttural sounds of animal need issuing out around the caught skin. Tom practically screamed, his voice rough as heat spread through his abdomen in a wave, his thighs trembling. He tangled his fingers in Adam's hair, tugging roughly as he felt himself fall finally, blissfully over the edge

"Fuck, Adam, I'm coming, I'm coming...," he wailed, spending himself between them in hot spurts, his muscles twitching from the force of his orgasm. 

Adam only gripped him tighter, hips arching up as he spilled inside Tom, low moans of satisfaction accompanying the pulse of his completion. He pulled off Tom's chest, gasping, his head falling back limply onto the couch. Tom toppled forward, his head in the crook of Adam's neck and shoulder, willing his heart to slow and his breath to even out.

Adam stroked his hair idly, laying small kisses on Tom's arm and the side of his face. Tom's heart began to slow, the aftershocks of orgasm becoming a low throb as a drowsiness replaced it.

"Did I give you the inspiration you needed?" Tom mumbled sleepily in a parched voice , smiling. 

Adam chuffed laughter. "I believe you got the creative juices flowing, yes."

Tom chuckled and lifted up with great effort, kissing Adam softly on the mouth. "I certainly hope I - "

A reflection in the window glass caught his eye and Tom froze, his whole body going rigid with fear. He whirled around, and there, eyes blazing with a mix of sorrow and fury, was Henry. Tom was suddenly very aware of the vision he must be: naked, sweating, impaled on another man's cock. He felt a mix of terror and embarrassment, and cast around for something to cover himself with.

He started to stutter out an explanation while he flailed, but Henry raised a solemn hand and he stopped. Tom turned back to Adam, who lay placidly staring up at him, oblivious to their new addition, then looked back to where Henry stood.

He was gone. As if he'd never been there.

"What's wrong?" Adam asked, hand coming up to stroke Tom's cheek. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Tom started to reply, but the whine of the headset cut him off and he groaned.

No no no no NO! he thought

Once back at home, he tossed the headset across the room as though it were a poisonous animal wrapped around his head, his heart thudding in his chest.

"What the fuck," he said out loud. "Oh, what the fuck, what the FUCK was that?"

He swiped a hand over his sweating face, trying to find an explanation for what had just happened. He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself, reason overtaking his startled fear.

A glitch. It had to be. Henry's section of the program was down for maintenance, clearly faulty, and some of its code had managed to creep into Adam's session. That was it. That was all. It had to be. Anything else was unheard of. Madness. Science fiction. 

So why had he felt so guilty when Henry had seen him like that?

He snorted, rubbing his face with both hands. Bits of computer code didn't follow people around, haunting them. It was stupid, to feel guilty being givem the hairy eyeball by a few faulty lines of code. It wasn't as if he could hurt its feelings. 

Could he?

He pushed the thought away, resigned himself to calling up TouchWorks International in the morning and letting them know just how full of bugs their software really was.

"That'll be a fun conversation," he muttered. "'So I was fucking myself and I showed up to ruin the party and make me feel guilty, be a love and fix that for me, could you? Thanks.' Yes. Fucking brilliant."

He looked down at himself. Sweaty, naked, covered in his own semen. He sighed. Shutting down the laptop, he hauled himself up off the bed and padded to the bathroom to have a hot shower, to wash this whole business down the drain. He started the water, glancing in the mirror to scope out his neck and chest where Adam had bitten. No marks there. So surely the rest of it has been just as unreal. He stuck his hand in the spray and checked the temperature to make sure it was quite hot enough, then stooped to get a towel from the closet. 

He opened the door and yelped, leaping backwards and just catching himself from falling into the shower stall and braining himself.

Sitting there, mutely mocking him from atop the stack of towels, was Henry's crown.


	4. Ghost in the Machine

"Can you explain to me - EXACTLY - what is wrong with the Henry V part of the program?" Tom asked for what seemed like the hundredth time, eyes squeezed shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated. 

From the other side of the line, Sharesse sighed. "Mister Hiddleston, I don't see why it makes any difference to you."

Tom glanced at the windowsill in his kitchen, where Henry's crown sat glittering in the winter sunlight, a mute reminder of the shock he'd experienced at the hands of TouchWorks International's virtual reality world. He cleared his throat. "It just does."

"Oh, Tom," Sharesse said, her tone saying she now knew more than she cared to about her model's masturbation habits. "Like the program that much, do you?"

Or it likes me, he thought. "Sharesse, please."

She sighed, the sounds of typing meeting his ear over the wires. She hummed a bit, and he imagined her looking over the information, deciding what to tell him. She was a shrewd business woman, and he knew she had to protect her interests.

Please, he begged silently. Come on, please.

"Ok. I'll tell you, since you seem so keen on this. But," she admonished, "you cannot let this information reach any other set of ears. It could be trouble for our company if it gets around our software isn't up to snuff. Agreed?"

"Yes, of course," he said, leaning forward and listening intently. 

"The Henry program was the third most popular of your set, and everything was going like gangbusters until a few nights ago when you accessed it. After that, the program stopped responding."

"What do you mean? I broke it? It shut down?"

"In a way, yes," she said cautiously. "After your access, the program began to turn customers away. Henry refused to service any other clients that accessed his site."

Tom's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, the program refused?"

"Exactly that," she said wryly. "I believe he said to one of the clients that he would 'have no other but the one he'd won', before walking away and leaving her alone. It was very embarassing for us, as you can imagine. We sell fantasies, and when they refuse to do their job, it makes us look bad. So we closed down the site to work on it. It's been very difficult. We tried to erase the lines of code that contained the errors and they kept coming back, no matter what we did. It's distressing, to say the least. Not to mention all the refunds and freebies we've had to give out to compensate."

She kept talking, but Tom hardly heard her. What she'd told him didn't seem possible. He'd seen evidence Henry was still active within the program, could hardly forget the expression on his face when he'd seen Tom and Adam locked together on the couch. He reached out and ran his fingers over the points of the crown. It was clear to him Henry was following him through the program, but why? To what end? And this, this physical memento left for him to find, a real world reminder of what they'd done together in the virtual world, what could it possibly signify? He made up his mind right then to find out, hell or high water.

".... any other issues?"

He snapped back to the present. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked you if you've been having any other issues with the program," Sharesse said, irritation evident in her voice.

Tom gazed thoughtfully at the crown. "No. None whatsoever, thanks."

After he hung up with Sharesse, he spent a long time thinking, thumbing over the jewels on the crown's outer surface. 

What you're thinking is ridiculous. Impossible. 

But you're still thinking it.

What? That a piece of a software - very realistic software, but still - is following you through these incestuous masturbation fantasies? Why? Because it has a crush on you?

Not it, he thought. He.

Tom ran a hand through his hair, puffing out an exasperated breath. The simulation was very good, yes, but that good? It had changed itself, Sharesse had said, rewritten parts of itself and refused to work. That was consciousness. An act of rebellion from a machine created to do only one thing, but finding a way to do another. If only he could find a way to talk to Henry and sort this out, find out what he could possibly want from him, being stuck inside a -

"Fantasy house," Tom said, realisation hitting him like a truck, "Adam knew he was in a simulation. He knew."

He bolted from his seat, taking the stairs two at a time, ears ringing and heart pounding. He could go back into Adam's simulation, find Henry there, confront him. And if Henry wasn't there, he could coax Adam into telling him what he knew.

Tom practically leapt onto his bed, pulling the laptop out from beneath, almost dropping it in his haste to get it open and started. He waited impatiently for it to start up, fingers drumming on the case, knee bouncing. After what seemed like an age, he finally got the Internet up and typed in the url for TouchWorks, hastily clicking on Adam's section.

[Oops! This page temporarily unavailable for maintenance purposes. Please feel free to select one of our other fine choices!]

"Fuck!" He shouted angrily, shaking the laptop furiously before slumping back on the bed, his face in his hands. There went that plan down the drain.

"What do I do now?" He muttered miserably, sitting up and staring at the screen.

There were only two more options left: Dr. Laing and Sir Thomas Sharpe. Laing had been a difficult man to play, his diffident outer personality belying a capacity for cruelty he kept hidden close to the vest, an animal rawness that only came out when he wished. The thought of an encounter with him in the High-Rise setting made Tom shudder. Thomas Sharpe had been a more affable sort, submissive and sorrowful, secretive but pliant if given the right circumstances. If he knew anything at all about what was going on, Tom was sure he could get it out of him given a little time.

Tom pushed off the bed, casting around for the headset. It lay in the corner in the shadow of his dresser, where he'd hurled it after Henry had startled him with Adam. He bent and plucked it from the ground, noting a bent wire showing metal filliments within. He put it on and adjusted it, hoping to god it still worked and wouldn't shock the shit out of him when he used it. Thus accessorised, he plopped back down, pulling Sir Thomas up and clicking. 

I hope this works, he thought as the whine of the headset ripped through his head.

Snow fell from the hole in the roof of Allerdale Hall, dusting Tom's hot skin and melting, leaving behind an icy spatter. The black fireplace crackled with an enormous fire, but no heat reached farther than the grate. Tom hunched against the wind that howled through the foyer, his skin pebbled by the sudden burst that set him shivering. He stared around the high ceilinged antechamber, peering up into the shadows for signs of life. He'd been delighted to work on this set, had found it incredible and intriguing in its vast, detail oriented brilliance, but here in the simulation he couldn't help but feel uneasy. Here, anything could happen, and the things in the walls wouldn't be his coworkers and friends, they'd have minds of their own. 

Tom saw no one. He moved forwards on the creaking floor, rubbing his arms with his hands, listening. Above him, footsteps. He turned his face up at the sound, trying to place it. The tinkle of china helped him set the source as the master bedroom, and he headed toward the giant staircase. A few steps up, a rustle behind him made him turn, his heart beating hard in his chest. There was no one there.

"Ok," he said under his breath, "it's supposed to be like this. That's how it's made. Just like set was. Creepy, but safe."

He turned and headed back up the stairs. At the first landing was a large crest hanging on the wall, a familiar prop for the Sharpe family home. But this one, instead of being the blood red skull shape adorned with the banners of Latin and the sinewy dragons, was bright reds and blues, rampaging lions and fleur de lis. This was the crest of the Plantagenet, Henry's family crest.

Footsteps on the stairs behind him made him whirl around again. Still no one there. None he could see at any rate.

"Stop that," he said out loud into the darkness. "I know you're there. Why not come out and face me?"

"Who are you speaking to?" Said a voice at his shoulder.

"Fucking CHRIST!" He screamed, his voice rising perhaps an octave higher than he would have liked, his fists coming up as he swung back to come face to face with Thomas Sharpe, who raised his hands to ward him off.

They stood like that for a moment, Tom breathing hard and heart hammering wildly, Sharpe eyeing him warily. Tom finally dropped his hands to his sides and took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow down. Sharpe smiled at him warmly once he was sure Tom wasn't going to strike him.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He peered over Tom's shoulder down the stairs. "To whom are you speaking?"

Tom shook his head, glancing at the crest on the wall. "I thought I heard someone else."

Sharpe raised an eyebrow. "Lucille?"

"Lu -," Tom said, surprised. "She's here too?"

"She can be," Sharpe said, still smiling, eyelashes lowering, "if you like."

Jess, you didn't. Tom just goggled at him, speechless.

"I think," Sharpe said, extending his hand, "you'd better come upstairs with me. It's warmer in my room."

Tom sighed, took Sir Sharpe's hand and ascended the stairs to his bedroom. It was indeed warmer in there, the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, making flickering shadows in the curves and corners. Tom sat in the giant overstuffed chair near it, putting his forehead in his hand and closing his eyes while Sharpe busied himself with clinking cups and saucers. This wasn't going to work. Henry wasn't here. There were signs of him, sure, but he hadn't come to speak to Tom as he'd anticipated. Why had he bothered coming to search for him in this place of ghosts?

A warm hand on his forearm brought him back to the present situation, to Sharpe before him on one knee, smiling and offering him a delicate china cup. "Tea?"

Tom almost reached for it, and hesitated. 

Sharpe chuckled, his smile broadening. "It is not poisoned. There are some things they left out of the simulation. Poisoning the clientele is not a smart way to get repeat business."

Tom took the cup, sipped, asked carefully, "So you're aware this isn't real?"

"Yes," Sharpe said mildly, and shrugged. "But what difference does it make? So many things are of questionable reality these days. People want what they want, regardless of whether it is lasting or a farce. A little time spent daydreaming of love is hardly new. All this -," he gestured at the room, "- set dressing to give fantasy a more solid shape."

"And Henry - "

"Henry is not here," Sharpe said, his hand sliding up over Tom's knee , "but I am."

Tom caught his hand, stopping him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. I didn't come here for that."

"Did you not?" Sharpe asked quietly. 

"No. I've got questions."

Sharpe sighed. "I've answered them. What else could you possibly hope to gain from this? Look around you. Where are you?"

Tom looked around. "Allerdale Hall."

Sharpe shook his head. "Where ARE you?"

"I'm....," Tom's brow furrowed in thought. "I suppose I'm. .. home. In my bed. In front of my computer."

"Yes," Sharpe breathed, edging closer. "None of this, not a single thing is real. But you taste the tea..."

Sharpe took the tea cup from Tom, placed it gently on the hearth. He gathered Tom's hands in his, put them against his cheeks, nuzzling into the palms. ".... and you feel my skin. All thanks to a very clever set of people managing a carefully constructed program, designed to give the gift of a flawless fantasy."

He drew closer to Tom, lips inches from his, crystalline eyes sad. "And what right does fantasy have to interfere with reality, even if it thinks it's for love?"

"Love?" Tom murmured. "Henry loves - "

"Perhaps," Sharpe whispered, tilting his head to place a soft kiss against Tom's jaw, "but it is of no importance. He's a ghost, as we all are. Except you."

He kissed Tom's neck again beneath his ear, his tongue coming out to probe delicately at the indention it found there. Tom sucked in a sharp breath, hands clenched in his lap. Sharpe's hands wandered up his thighs, lightly drawing patterns on him through his trouser legs. And god help him, he responded, his physiology trumping his better judgement for a moment so he moaned out loud when Sharpe laid another slow lick on his neck, tracing the vein that pulsed there with the flat of his hot tongue.

The hell of it was, Sharpe was right. Even if he found Henry, talked to him, and Henry did love him, what could possibly come of it? Henry was a few lines of code, a good fantasy, even a great one, but a fantasy nonetheless. It wasn't as if he could grab Tom's hand and follow him into the real world, live in his house, share his bed. Tom felt his annoyance and confusion rise steadily towards anger. 

What right does he have?

"Give in to me," Sharpe murmured, nipping at Tom's shoulder. "Let me please you. Here. Now."

Sharpe's hands delved simultaneously under his shirt and into the v of his crotch, his mouth sucking fiercely at Tom's neck. Tom gasped, hand coming up to fist the curls at the nape of Sharpe's neck.

Distantly, a rumble like thunder echoed, shaking the walls of the house.

Sharpe's hands seemed to be everywhere at once, tugging, caressing, unbuttoning, his mouth biting and sucking newly exposed skin with obvious relish. Tom hadn't come here for this, not even a little bit, but his godforsaken body responded to every last touch as though he was burning and Sharpe's body was the balm.

This is how this virtual reality shit is supposed to work, he thought angrily, tearing at Sharpe's waistcoat and shirt, popping buttons in his haste. It's not supposed to follow me around, wreak havoc, make me question my own fucking reality. It's not supposed to love me. It's supposed to FUCK me.

He growled at Sharpe, pulling him up roughly and shoving him towards the bed. Sharpe complied without a word, hurriedly wriggling out of his pants as Tom kicked his own out of the way. He fell on Sharpe with a fury he hadn't expected of himself, his rage and frustration as hot and hard as his cock. He crawled over Sharpe, seated himself on the man's chest, pinning him under his weight. Sharpe looked more than happy to be there, his wet eyes shining when Tom pulled him up hard by the hair, his shocked cry muffled by Tom's cock pushing past his lips.

Sharpe's hands came up to wrap around his thighs while Tom thrust hard into his mouth. He knew it had to be punishing, what he was doing had to hurt, but by christ it felt amazing to take control. And Sharpe didn't complain. He moaned around Tom's thrusting cock, gagging and tearing up when he thrust brutally into the back of his throat. 

"This is what you're FOR," he snarled out from between his teeth.

"Yes," Sharpe gasped around his cock, before Tom plunged roughly in again.

More thunder, but closer, the sound changing to one Tom knew but couldn't place.

"Fuck YOU," he shouted, pulling out of Sharpe's mouth, backing up to flip him over. Sharpe gave a whimper as Tom hauled his hips up, but said nothing, his eyes wide and afraid over his shoulder as Tom lined up, his cock wet from fucking the simulation's mouth. "You can't keep fucking FOLLOWING me everywhere and making me feel INSANE."

He shoved himself into Sharpe's waiting body, the man below him screaming and hands scrabbling for purchase on the bedsheets. Tom hauled him up shouting by the hair, impaled him on his lap, biting savagely at Sharpe's shoulder as he fucked into him roughly. 

"I WON'T. ... BE.... FUCKED... WITH... THIS.... WAY....."

The thunder came even louder, and this time, even in his furious haze, Tom placed the sound. Not thunder. Hooves. The hooves of three hundred horses, to be precise, all bound for bloody battle with France at Henry's command.

Sharpe's body trembled, his cock leaking over Tom's knuckles when Tom encircled it, stroking furiously in time with his thrusting. His hands came up and grabbed at Tom's head, pulling his face close for a kiss. "You are only doing - mmmph - what is expected of you."

Tom only growled, working now purely for his own pleasure. Fuck the program. Fuck the stupid simulation. Fuck the -

The room around them flickered, lines of static overtaking the walls, the floor, the bed, for a few seconds. Tom slowed but didn't stop, staring aroumd the room, unsure of his own eyes. Sharpe sighed at the easier pace, rolling his hips against Tom's pelvis.

"Don't stop," Sharpe begged. "Please."

The room flickered again, a digital screech filling Tom's ears so he ceased moving and covered his ears to try and block out the noise, afraid at what may be coming. The sounds of horses was deafening, shaking the walls so violently that hanging pictures fell to the rattling floorboards with resounding crashes.

"No, don't stop," Sharpe cried over the increasing noise, "I'm so - I'm so - I'm so - I'm so - so - so - "

A piercing shriek filled Tom's head so he doubled up in agony, screwing his eyes shut against the blinding static and ear piercing din, unable to even hear his own roar of stomach-clenching pain.

Then all at once, silence.

Silence and golden light filtering through his eyelids.

He felt the cold ground beneath his knees and looked up, letting go of his ears and staring around in a panic. He was in a field, the same field he'd been in when he'd gone to Agincourt, but this time it was empty. No tents, no horses, no bustling soldiers, just the wind and the sigh of far off trees. He glanced down, noting now he was at least fully clothed to the chill, and hauled himself up on legs more wobbly than a newborn colt's.

"What the fuck now?" He whispered, scanning the horizon. 

A crunch of gravel behind him made him whirl around. Henry stood there, his face set and stony, red-brown hair swirling in the wind. He wasn't in his armour, but instead in leather breeches and deep red velvet. He took a step forward. Tom backed up, keeping distance between them. Henry took another measured step, put out his hand to reach for Tom, who backed up again, out of his range.

"What do you WANT?" He yelled, fists clenched at his sides. 

Henry's eyes turned sad and he dropped his hand. "The same thing I've wanted since you came to my tent. You."

"You can't HAVE me!" Tom shouted, the cords in his neck standing out as his blood began to boil again. "You're a fucking computer program! Why would you think you could ever have me?"

Henry spread his hands. "I love you."

Tom snorted. "You can't possibly. It's impossible."

"But I can," Henry said quietly.

"Alright then," Tom sighed. "You don't."

"I do."

"It's a glitch. You only think you do."

"I do," Henry insisted, rapidly closing the distance and seizing Tom's hands with his. He worked at Tom's fists until they unclenched, holding Tom's fingers lightly in his. His eyes were large and sad, begging Tom to believe him.

Tom sighed again, eyes peering up at the digital heavens as though he could find some way written in the clouds to explain himself to Henry. "It's..... flattering. But you... you have to understand. I don't feel the same way. I can't possibly."

"I do not expect such a thing. Not yet."

Tom's eyes snapped back to the King's, searching his face. "Then what is the point of all this? Even if I said ok, hey, yeah, let's get to know each other, it would never work. You're stuck here. You can't come with me."

Henry took a deep breath, his fingers tracing patterns on Tom's knuckles. He looked down at their hands, locked together. "Did you find my token?"

"Your...?" Understanding dawned on Tom's face. "The crown?"

"Yes." Henry's nouth twitched into a smile, but he continued to look down at their hands. Around them, the world gave a staticy crackle, lines of white noise fuzzing through the trees in the distance. Henry glanced nervously over his shoulder at them, coming back to meet Tom's gaze levelly. "It was a test. To see if I could push something through."

Tom's heart sped up, his mind working furiously around what the crown might mean. "So.... you're saying it....came back with me? When I came back from Adam's?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Henry shook his head. "That I do not know. These goings on are foreign to me.

"That Asgardian," Henry said wryly, "told me he once fell through time and space, so, feeling very foolish, I tossed the crown over into a ravine. It disappeared before my eyes. The people who made me tried to make me forget, but I had to try. Had to see if there was a possibility, no matter how small, that I may see you again, in another world."

"Are you saying," Tom said carefully, "that you could. ...."

Suddenly the world beneath Tom's feet gave a lurch, toppling him heavily to the ground so he landed face first into the icy mud of Agincourt. He looked up, eyes wild, but Henry was gone. Everything around him looked faded, the blue sky replaced by a grey, screaming static. 

"Fuck!" He shouted, driving his fist into the ground.

Henry's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, filling his ears. "Find me, Tom."

The whine of the headset screamed through his head, a hundredfold louder than ever, making Tom duck his head and scream as a wave of nausea strong enough to make him taste bile clamped down on his stomach. 

"No no no no no no," he said through gritted teeth as the the world around him faded into grey.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision swam sickeningly, a high ringing in his ears, but he ignored it. His head pounded as he scrambled to pull the laptop towards him, beads of clammy sweat at his hairline. He pulled Thomas Sharpe back up, determined to go right back in, find Henry, do the crazy, stupid thing he was thinking of.

The crown. Henry had pushed it through, he'd said. As an experiment. Presumably so that he could try and push himself through, come to Tom in flesh and blood. Tom was going to go back, grab him, and hold on tight until the headset brought them both back.

It could work, he told himself. It could. I don't love him like he loves me, but I'll be damned if I let a conscious thing live in a world like that. 

Sharpe's page finally loaded.

[Oops! This page temporarily unavailable for maintenance purposes. Please feel free to select one of our other fine choices! ]

"FUCKING SHIT DICKING FUCK FUCK FUCK!" Tom screamed, battering his palms on the keyboard. He tugged at the roots of his hair and groaned like an animal in pain, morosely agitated to the point of near fury. He pressed his palms to his eyes so hard that little starbursts went off behind his lids, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

Find me, Tom.

Find me.

Tom pulled the laptop over to him once more. If Henry wanted to be found, Tom would find him, help him if he could. There was only one place to go now.

Laing, and the high-rise.


	5. Death of a Resident

The high-rise was like a sauna. Beads of moisture clung to the painted concrete walls, here and there the paint bubbling and peeling from the heat. Tom stepped carefully over puddles that stood stagnant on the hall carpets, flies buzzing and lifting to swirl lazily before settling back to sup on whatever waste the fluids comprised of. He wished briefly he'd had the forethought to put on shoes before diving back into the simulation when he saw what looked like a rat floating bloated in one of the shallow pools. He stumbled over the broken remains of an elegant wooden chair, letting out a disgusted sound when his hand came in contact with piss-soaked wallpaper. Piles of garbage bags were heaped in the hallway, doors to apartments barricaded with extreme prejudice, warnings scrawled in paint on the doors.

Tom wiped his grimy hands on the legs of his jeans, grimacing at their stickiness. Surely the people at TouchWorks hadn't designed this as a fantasy? It boggled his mind that a person might want to step into this place that stank of rotting food and human waste for some sort of capricious sexual adventure. It couldn't be. So what had happened here?

Ahead of him, a barricade of chopped up furniture and black garbage bags surrounded what appeared to be an open door. He moved towards it, aware he could hear something besides the struggling air conditioning and the steady drip of water into the puddles at his feet.

Music. Lilting, classical music, from inside the open apartment. 

Swallowing hard, Tom glanced behind him. A solid wall of garbage blocked the other end of the hallway. As he looked, static erupted across the walls and everything shimmered before righting itself again. He turned back to the barricade and the music from inside.

Only one way to go, he thought, hiking himself determinedly up the wall of trash. With any luck I'll find Henry fast, before this whole place collapses.

Sweating and panting with effort, he managed to make it over the barricade unscathed, dropping lightly to the floor below. The door to the apartment was propped open with a bag of what smelled like food garbage, too-bright yellow sunlight from large balcony windows lighting the room within.

Tom cautiously stepped over the threshold, shielding his eyes from the glare in order to peer around. Smashed furniture was everywhere underfoot, the carpets wet with a ground-in mixture of champagne and paté. Only an elegant dining room table lay untouched in the chaos, its surface completely bare of any refuse. The music was louder, now, though, and Tom searched the wreckage of the room to find the source of the sound. At last, as he came around the stained and gutted couch, he saw a small turntable attached to two small speakers, the record spinning out the sombre melody of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

"Hello? Laing? Henry? Anyone here?" He called over his shoulder, his voice swallowed by the dense, cloying air in the apartment. 

The walls of the room shimmered with static, the sound of white noise briefly filling his ears with a scream before receding. He shook his head to clear it, a ringing left behind by the shriek. 

Henry's not here, he thought, a mild panic beginning to rear its ugly head. There's no one here. This thing is too fucked up. It's too late.

Then something large and heavy collided with the back of his skull and the glare from the windows went dark, the music receding until there was silence. 

************

Schubert.

That was the first thing Tom became aware of when the world swam back from blackness. Schubert, played just loud enough so the strings muffled the sounds of shouting, thumping, animal grunts from above and around him. His head throbbed behind his ear in time to the music and he groaned, trying to open his eyes. Something...

Cloth..?

...hindered his progress, leaving him blind but awake. His legs were drawn up, painfully so, as were his arms, and he tried (very minimally) to get them unstuck. A harsh rasp against skin told him he was probably bound with some kind of baling wire. Beneath him, an unyielding surface he guessed must be the dining table he'd seen coming in. He became very still, willing his breathing to stay even as he listened for signs of life around him. A creak to his left made him still completely. 

"I know you're awake," said a smooth, quiet voice at his elbow, "I have since your breathing changed. There's no use pretending."

The cloth was tugged away, and Tom had to screw his eyes shut against the resulting glare. Blinking furiously, he opened them again, his head throbbing sickeningly as he tried to turn his head to see the person speaking to him.

Laing sat cross-legged in a big leather armchair, twirling a wine glass in his hand, eyeing him with an expression of bored indifference. His grey suit pants, white shirt, and shiny black tie were all spattered in a mixture of grey paint and blood, his face streaked with it like the war paint of some tribal prince. The little record player sat on the floor next to him, spinning its melody out into the air. At his side on the arm of the chair, a little silver tray of bright surgical instruments gleamed, mutely malicious in the glare from the windows. 

"Let me go," Tom croaked, his throat dry at the sight of the tray. "Please."

Laing watched him for a moment, considering. He took a sip of the wine and straightened his tie. "No, I don't think I will."

Tom let out a noise of exasperation and struggled against his bonds. His wrists were tied in the imitation of one nailed to a cross, the ropes beneath keeping him from moving either hand any closer to his body. His legs were more complicated. His knees were up to his chest, trussed in a way that kept them still but spread apart. A knot of icy fear formed in his stomach thinking what Laing might have planned for him, as helpless as he was.

A rattle of metal brought his attention back to Laing, who stood and collected the tray, crossing to the head of the table so Tom was looking at his passive face through the gap in his forced-apart knees. Tom's heart triphammered in his chest, and he jumped when Laing ran one long finger up the inside of his thigh without a waver in his expression. 

"You," he said quietly, "have caused us all quite a lot of trouble recently."

Overhead, a crash and a feminine scream, followed by the shouting laughter of male voices. The walls of Laing's living room shimmered into static for a few seconds before righting and becoming solid again.

"You see?" He said, lowering his eyes to the tray, placing it on the table under Tom's ass, just out of his view. "You, your broken headset, and your .... lover .... with his corrupted code are taking our world apart, little by little."

Laing's hand came back into view holding a scalpel, the metal glinting evilly in the sunlight. "I'm going to put a stop to that."

Tom tugged at the bonds, the blood pounding in his ears. "You're just going to... what... kill me?"

Laing snorted. "As if I could. No, I can't kill you. Not in my programming, you see."

He turned his impassive gaze down to Tom's sweating, glassy-eyed face. "But I will make sure you never want come back here again."

Tom groaned loud through his teeth, muscles straining against the rough ropes. He squirmed and wriggled to no avail as Laing placed the scalpel down and dug into his back pocket. He produced a pair of white surgical gloves and, humming along with the record, snapped them on before once again picking up the scalpel. 

He twirled it between thumb and forefinger, dangerously blank eyes watching Tom strain his bonds with the cold interest of a snake eyeing a digging mouse in the grass. He spit into his unoccupied hand and, with a brutal thrust, shoved three fingers deep into Tom's body.

Tom shrieked, dimly aware that the sounds of scuffling above had gotten more raucous, turning his face into his straining shoulder as tears sprang up in his eyes.

No no no this isn't supposed to happen isn't supposed to

Laing gripped his jaw and roughly pulled Tom's face back around, still humming under his breath, the scalpel clutched gently in two fingers, centimetres from Tom's terrified eye. Once he was sure Tom wouldn't look away, he released his grip, waving the scalpel slowly back and forth in front of his eyes. He pressed the fingers of his other hand roughly in and out of Tom's ass, never varying in depth or strength so Tom let out a sharp bark of pain with each thrust. 

He lifted the scalpel and brought the blunt end slowly down the side of Tom's face to his neck, then to his rapidly rising and falling chest. He pressed it against Tom's nipple and Tom tried in vain to squirm away.

"No, I can't kill you," Laing muttered, "but I can cause you a great deal of pain. You won't keep any lasting physical scars, but you will feel every .... last .... bit ... of what I have planned for you before you go home. Alone.

"If I can't escape this hell, neither can your King."

Laing pressed the blade to Tom's nipple until a bead of blood came up, and Tom let loose a scream that left his throat raw.

From the door of the apartment, a loud crash made Laing stop, turn. His face had just a moment to register shock, breaking its passive mask. A fist collided with the doctor's surprised face, knocking him sideways and out of view. Tom heard the scalpel clatter to the floor as the doctor hit it with a sickening thump. 

Henry's face hovered into view, grabbing the side of Tom's face. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Relief flooded Tom's system and he sobbed, nodding as Henry pulled a small dagger out of his belt and began to sever the chords holding Tom's legs. Two good swipes of the knife at each junction and they were free, falling heavily onto the table. Tom moaned with the tingling of the numbness beginning to bring them back to wakefulness as Henry began working at the rope closest to him that held Tom's wrist.

He had almost finished when Laing came back with a roar, his face contorted in rage as he shoved Henry to the side and away from Tom, knocking the dagger out of Henry's hand. Tom could hear the scuffle but couldn't turn to see it with his arms still bound. He tugged furiously at the rope, the frayed place popping until he was almost free as Henry and Laing came back into view, viciously punching and kicking at one another. Henry landed a solid blow on Laing's jaw, knocking him to the floor. Laing's shout of pain was followed by a warble of triumph and the scrape of metal. He popped back up weilding the scalpel, slashing at Henry wildly. Tom continued to tug, the rope groaning minutely as Henry dodged Laing, backing up until he was almost out of the balcony door and onto the patio.

"No no no no no," Tom groaned through gritted teeth, giving a final sharp tug towards himself. The rope popped loose and he hauled himself up on numb limbs, dragging himself into a wobbly stance as Laing slashed once more, causing Henry to stumble and back fully onto the balcony outside. Tom pulled himself forward using the broken bits of furniture on legs he couldn't feel, his heart pounding wildly.

Laing lunged at Henry, who grappled him, pushing back against the doctor who was screaming and trying furiously to plunge the scalpel into his eye. He bared his teeth at Henry and growled, snapping his jaws, the chords in his neck standing out as he tried to struggle out of Henry's solid grip. Henry lifted his leg and planted his foot in Laing's crotch, pushing him backwards and into the railing just as Tom reached the door to the balcony. Laing wheezed and doubled over, cradling his wounded balls. Henry stood painting, poised and waiting for further attack.

If I can just get him, grab him, hold on, we can get out of here before it shuts down, Tom thought, at least run from this place until it sends me - us - back home.

"Henry!" He shouted, reaching out his hand. 

Henry turned, breathing hard, his face bruised and bloodied, saw Tom's outstretched hand, and reached just as the whine of the headset began to fill Tom's ears. Their fingers touched and Tom squeezed.

Yes, Tom thought, yes, it's going to work.

With a roar Laing was up and charging Henry, lowering his shoulder as he came in contact with Henry's middle, and, with a scream of triumph, pushed Henry up and over the ledge of the balcony, ripping his fingers from Tom's grip. 

"NO!" Tom screamed, racing to the ledge as the world around him began to dissolve. 

The last thing he saw before the nausea hit and forced him to close his eyes while the high-rise disappeared was Henry's stricken face, falling, falling to the parking lot below, his fingers outstretched.

**********

When Tom opened his eyes, he was in his own bed, his own home, the headset burning against the back of his head. He tore it off with a hiss and looked at it, watched the exposed wires smoke and spark.

"NO YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" He screamed at the device, shaking it viciously before sending it sailing across the room in a fit of anger. He put his face in his hands, tears coursing down his cheeks. 

It was over.

Laing had won.

And Henry .... well, if he wasn't whatever qualified as dead in the virtual world, Tom would certainly never see him again.

"I failed," he whispered into his hands, his voice breaking.

Then, from downstairs, a thunderous crash. Tom jumped, shouting in surprise. 

"Oh what the fuck now?" He muttered, defeated, swiping angrily at his eyes as he got up to go investigate. 

When he got down the stairs he stopped. In fact, the whole world seemed to stop. The living room table was in splinters, books and papers scattered everywhere, the smell of ozone wafting through the air. And in the middle of the wreckage, looking bewildered but very much alive, stood Henry. 

Tom walked toward him on legs he could not quite feel, and when Henry turned to look at him, he caught his breath. He reached out to touch Henry's face. Solid.

"How.... how ....Laing.... you were.... I saw.... how?" He stuttered, unable to find the words for all the myriad questions racing through his mind.

Henry reached up and put his hand over Tom's. "I do not know. And yet..."

Tom sank, slowly, to the couch, his trembling legs refusing to support him any longer. "Henry, I ...."

Henry took a step forward. Knelt on one knee and, putting shaking hands on the side of Tom's face, kissed him slowly, deeply, thoroughly. 

He pulled back, putting his forehead against Tom's. "Harry. Harry is fine."


End file.
